Chapter 4 Ode to a Nightingale

Ode to a Nightingale My heart aches, tired and numb pierced the senses like a poisoned dove, And as if opium had just been swallowed, So it sank toward the Leswang River: Not that I envy your good fortune, But your joy delights me too much— For in the clear sky and earth in the woods, Thou light-winged faery, You hid in the green and shadow of the beech, Let go of your voice and sing about summer. Ah, if only there was a sip of wine!that refrigerated Alcoholic beverages that have been underground for many years, One taste reminds me of the land of green, Think of Flora, Love Song, Sunshine and Dance!

If there is a cup of warmth from the southern country Filled with bright red fountains of inspiration, Pearly foam flickers on the rim, stain the lips with purple spots; Oh, I'll drink and leave this world, Go with you to hide in the dark woods: Far away, far away, let me forget All that you never knew among the leaves, Forget this fatigue, fever, and restlessness, The world that makes people sit and lament; Here youth pales, thins, dies, And "paralyzed" has a few white hairs shaking; Here, a little thought is full of Sadness and gray despair, And "beauty" can't keep the brilliance of bright eyes,

A newborn love withers before it lives to-morrow. go!go!I'm flying towards you Don't ride with Bacchus in the chariot of Wenbao, I will spread the invisible wings of poetry, Though the mind is weary and weary; went!Oh, I have gone with you! The night is so tender, the queen of the moon is on the throne, Surrounded by the stars that guard her; But it's not very bright here, Except for a ray of sky, carried by the breeze, Green gloom, and mossy paths. I can't see what kind of flowers and plants are at my feet, What fragrant flowers hang on the branches; In the cozy gloom, I can only guess

What kind of fragrance should I put in this season Give this fruit trees, woods, and grass, The hovenia, and the roses of the field, The easy violet among the green leaves, And the pampering of mid-May, This musk-rose, laced with dew, It became a haven for the buzzing of gnats on summer nights. I listen in the dark: oh, how many times I almost fell in love with silent death, I have exhausted all the good words in my poems, Ask him to take my breath away into the void; And now, oh, how richer is death: In the middle of the night, suddenly departed from the world, when you pour out your heart

Such ecstasy! You will still sing, but I will no longer hear-- Your funeral song can only be sung to a piece of mud and grass. O immortal bird, you shall not die! Starving generations cannot overwhelm you; Tonight, the song I heard by chance Has pleased the kings and peasants of old; Perhaps this same song once stirred Ruth's melancholy heart made her weep, Standing in a foreign country's grain field thinking of home; it's the voice that often Raise the casements in lost faeries: A beautiful woman looks at the menacing waves of the sea. Oh, lost!This word is like a bell

Wake me up to where I stand! do not!Fantasy, the deceitful witch, Can't keep playing its rumored tricks. do not!do not!your complaining song Flowing across the lawn, over the quiet brook, slipped up the hill; and now it was deep Buried in a nearby ravine: Hey, is this a hallucination, or a dream? The singing went: - Am I sleeping?Are you awake? Translated by Cha Liangzheng Ode To A Nightingale John Keats My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk

Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness,-- That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O, for a draft of vintage! that hath been Cool a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

And with thee fade away into the forest dim Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves has never been known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards Already with thee! tender is the night, And happily the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets coverd up in leaves;

And mid-Mays oldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain-- To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I heard this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charmd magic cases, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famous to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?